Branded
by Lady-Ithil
Summary: Scar stories... beat up after a typical day on the job, Sam and Dean can't wait to relax. But Sam's mind can't rest as he contemplates the uncertainty of his place in the war. A short from Sam's thoughts, set in the fourth season after "Heaven and Hell."


"Damn it… _damn_ it!"

Sam Winchester raised his leaden head, grudgingly lifting his chin from its resting place on his palm. His eyes took a long moment to focus blearily on his brother, who stood in front of the scratched and smudgy mirror that dominated one wall of the motel room they shared. Dean was peeling the remains of a shredded shirt from his bloody chest, grimacing as fabric ripped away from skin like a band-aid. The dried blood was almost as good as glue. Seizing a nearby scissors, he cut the thin strip of cloth that was holding the shirt together and pulled it open to better examine the wound on his chest.

"Damn it," he muttered again, more of a resigned sigh this time. "Sam, turn on that lamp over there, would ya?" The younger brother didn't want to move and his every muscle resisted as he stood, but he took those monumental seven steps to the other side of the room and fumbled under the lampshade for a switch.

Sam squinted as the light cast an obnoxiously bright yellow glow on his brother and the rest of the room, which was badly decked in the décor of a Victorian mansion. Shades of dark burgundy accented with hues of tarnished gold made for a rather dingy color palette. The pattern of sprawling golden flowers on the wallpaper _almost_ achieved what he assumed its purpose to be—making those mysterious stains and dirty, peeling patches less noticeable. Someone had gone overboard with the tassels; they ornamented the curtains, blankets, pillows, rug… and to complete the look, a musty mounted boar's head that occupied the wall space between their beds. One ear had torn nearly all the way through and was hanging by a thread. Upon first entering, Dean had said it looked like a brothel. Sam was personally reminded more of a funeral parlor.

The sound of Dean sucking in his breath through clenched teeth took Sam's attention from the ugly decorations. He watched his brother's reflection in the mirror as Dean dabbed at his skin with a wet cloth. Three claw marks started at his shoulder and ran over his ribs, ending just above his belly button. Red and angry-looking, they were crusted in blood and dirt. As Dean worked to remove the debris and dried blood, fresh blood began to seep forth and drip down his torso. Sam glanced at his brother's reflected face as Dean gritted his teeth.

"How bad is it?" he asked.

"Not too bad."

"Stitches?"

"Nah. Not that deep. How's your face?" Dean asked, not stopping his unpleasant task.

Sam lifted a hand to the left side of his face and rested his fingers gingerly next to his mouth. Applying light and tentative pressure, he felt his way up his cheek and past his cheekbone. The warm and swollen skin became more and more tender as he went, until he stopped just above the outer corner of his eye. He had expected a cut there but found none; however, his eye was nearly swollen shut. He sighed and carefully pushed a few strands of hair off his forehead. "It's fine."

Dean paused to scrutinize his brother for a few seconds. "Dude, you look like shit."

Sam grunted a short and humorless laugh. "Thanks." Dean shrugged his right shoulder, careful not to move his injured side.

"Don't mention it. I'm gonna get in the shower and clean this out," he said as he put the wet and bloodied towel down on the table before the mirror. Stopping on the way to the bathroom, he carefully and slowly removed his open tee shirt, pulling off the garment like a jacket. Dean winced visibly as his torso stretched in the process, but made no noise as he turned and tossed the spent shirt into a wastebasket.

Sam watched in silence. He caught a glimpse of the scar adorning his brother's left shoulder as Dean turned. The handprint was unsettling in sight—perfectly shaped, raised, with the shine of pink, new flesh. It was almost like a brand. Sam couldn't help but stare every time he saw it, with the same type of morbid fascination an onlooker of a horrible car crash might feel. He stifled a soft shudder.

"Want me to order pizza?" he asked, turning back towards the mirror.

"Yeah. Pepperoni. And sausage. And bacon. No pineapple on it this time, that stuff was gross," he answered, shutting the bathroom door behind him.

Suddenly overcome with dizziness, Sam leaned forward and braced himself on the table. Squeezing his eyes shut, he took deep, steady breaths. His head was pounding; the swollen area radiated pain as if it were the point where someone was driving home a railroad spike. The muscles running up the length of his back and through his neck were taut, on fire. His blood still pumped with the adrenaline of battle but his body was beginning to wind down and scream about its every ache and pain. Sam put a hand on the back of his neck and grasped at the muscles there, tightening and releasing in turn, trying to work some of the tension out of his stiff carcass.

"Man, I come back from hell without an old mark on my body, and now I'm getting all scratched up again. Son of a bitch," Dean's voice floated, muffled, from behind the bathroom door.

Sam lifted his head slowly, keeping his eyes closed. Dean was right. His brother had come out of hell with skin smooth and fresh, but he should have expected that in their line of work it wouldn't be long before he gained back just as many scars as he'd lost. His body was like a blank canvas and the evil they faced was a tortured artist with claws and fangs instead of brushes. Dean wasn't too vain—neither of them was—but he'd enjoyed at least the illusion of freedom from everything his old scars stood for. Sam hadn't said anything, but couldn't deny to himself the slight twinge of jealousy he'd felt.

Free of any scars… save one handprint.

Sam opened his eyes and looked at his own reflection. He really did look like shit. Aside from the point where his head had met concrete, the right side of his bottom lip was cut. Red marks were turning to purple around his neck where he'd been choked for what felt like the millionth time. Straightening slowly, he paused a moment before unfastening his plaid button-down and letting it fall to the floor. The black tee shirt beneath stuck to his sweaty skin as he pulled it painfully over his chest and shoulders. It seemed to take forever before his body was finally free of its confinement. He kicked the garments into an unceremonious pile in front of his bed.

A shower would feel so good. Rings of dirt and dust had formed where fabric ended at his neck and mid forearm. Sam tilted his head back to get a better look at the bruises on his throat. They would heal quickly. Everything would. The Winchester boys had always been quick healers—but all the same, so much had left a permanent mark.

Sam observed his body in the mirror with the strange sensation that he was viewing a painting instead of his own reflection. He ran a finger along the last major scar he'd received—a cut from broken glass that had embedded in his arm while jumping out of a church window. The mark was fairly new, still puffy and pink. But some other scars weren't as noticeable anymore without looking closer. Upon leaning in to the mirror, they seemed to become so obvious that he looked to his own eyes like some sort of freak road map. Long thin strips of flesh, just lighter than his normal skin tone, met others and crisscrossed across his chest, upper arms, and abdomen. On the right side of his torso, from long ago, was the mark where he'd been grazed by a bullet. Just below his protective tattoo were old claw wounds. Sam's gaze traveled upward and took in more claw marks on his face, these very faint. The scar of a deep wound usually covered by his hair was just barely visible below his right ear—shrapnel from an explosion. The entire left side of his chest, to where the line of his hip began and curved downward into his blue jeans, was red from the same impact with concrete that had damaged his head. This new wound was already starting to darken; nevertheless, he could still make out the raw flesh of freshly scraped skin that mingled with an old burn mark.

His eyes moved downward to his hands, hanging limp at his sides. They were dirty. Sam brought them up what felt like an impossibly long distance until they appeared before his face. Blood and grime was caked under his nails and crusted on his fingers. The tracks of ancient cuts decorated the backs, some won in battle, others acquired loosing in practice knife fights to his brother. Slowly those hands turned over, seemingly too large, too stupid to be his own. He noticed they shook slightly in their movement. The tip of one finger bent inward just a little too much, having been broken at some point. The skin was tough, almost calloused, along the lines of his palms. He let his hands fall as he returned to his gaze to the mirror and pivoted his body just enough to see his back, stomach clenching at what he knew would face him there.

Quite some time had passed since he'd looked at it, but there it was: the knife wound that had killed him. What was left of the deadly gash had faded significantly and resigned itself to an area roughly two inches long, almost dead center in his back. Still dark-pink, the once-mortal injury lightened outwards from its center and blended gradually into the rest of his skin. He lifted his hand to the scar and carefully felt the smooth flesh of the raised center, where the blade had plunged into his spine.

_Like a brand._

Dean's distinctive scar came to mind again as he moved his fingers along his own disfigurement. His brother had been branded by an angel. Castiel had left his mark on Dean and that meant Dean had been claimed by _heaven_—by the side that, despite the misgivings and let downs Sam had had in the last few weeks, he was still mostly convinced was the good side. Dean had been claimed by the good guys.

But who had claimed Sam?

Nothing but evil had ever left its mark upon his skin.

Sam's fingers stopped moving. He held his own gaze in the mirror for what seemed ages longer than the few seconds it actually was, eyes that appeared dark hazel in the yellow lamplight staring back at him. They revealed nothing but a mirror image of his own fears and made him feel uncomfortable to keep searching for something… _anything_ reassuring in their depths. Uncertainty gnawed at the bottom of his gut like a parasitic worm.

The sound of his brother singing an unidentifiable rock tune from the shower broke the uneasy silent gaze he held with his reflection. Turning abruptly to prevent any new thoughts from forming, Sam grabbed the nearby phone and phone book. He paged through the book until he found a pizza place that sounded promising. The phone rang once… twice… on the third ring a woman's voice answered.

"Pizza Del Luce's, how can I help you?"

"Yeah, hi, I'd like to place an order for delivery. One large deep-dish with pepperoni, sausage, bacon, and pineapple."

"All right, can—"

"Oh, but pineapple on only half, sorry."

"All right, can you hold for a moment?"

"Yeah, sure."

The line went silent and Sam heard his brother start the chorus of his song again, louder, though the words were still indiscernible due to the running water and Dean's non-talent at singing.

_We're marked,_ Sam thought. _Both of us. _

_Branded._

***

A/N:

Hello to my fellow Supernatural fans! :) This is my first venture into writing for this particular fandom. A friend got me hooked on the show at the beginning of the school year and I've wanted to write something for it ever since. My plan for this short was to have it done satisfactorily and post it within a week or so, which I have accomplished. It was written with the intent of helping me get back into writing after a long hiatus; hopefully I'll soon be back into the swing of things and I will be able to embark on my other projects. Among them: continuing my Resident Evil fiction, writing a children's story for a contest, and (possibly) a much longer Supernatural piece.

I really enjoy Supernatural and feel that Sam, Dean, and virtually every other character on that show are masterpieces of character development. I hope to find Supernatural fans as supportive and helpful as my Resident Evil fandom readers have been! PLEASE—I would love nothing more than a well-written review chock-full of constructive criticism. :) Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!

lady-ithil


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